


Falling Dreams

by Lightningpelt



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (I swear), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Eventual Happy Ending, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, No Sex, Post-Canon, Wings, a highly unpleasent dip in a sulfur bath, minimal proofreading so please forgive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 04:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpelt/pseuds/Lightningpelt
Summary: Aziraphale was suffering from a type of intoxication that comes with the sudden and novel lack of fear. In the wake of the near-apocalypse, he'd come to the conclusion that Falling couldn't really be so bad, surely.Or, in which Aziraphale goes about trying to Fall and Crowley attempts, rather desperately, to dissuade him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So honored and excited to be a part of the Good Omens Mini Bang!! This will be my first time (hopefully of many to come) posting work for this marvelous fandom, and I can't wait to share it with everyone~ It's my sincerest hope to do these characters (and this fandom in general) justice! 
> 
> The artist I was paired with is the amazing [Jadeykinns](https://jadeydoodles.tumblr.com/). Their incredible work will be featured in chapter five! 
> 
> For anyone interested, I've also made a [playlist for this fic on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2fO2302lgtUfZ2rg1u8sZG?si=PN8tjTzsQ8icgS4JIpwNPA)!

Honey did I wake you?  
Had that falling dream again  
Fear we're going nowhere  
Can we start where we began?

Couldn't love you more, couldn't love you more  
[In My Arms by Grizfolk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zKx7uh2DxM)  


The conversation started off ordinarily enough, as did many of their more life-altering interactions. Only a week had passed since the notpocalypse, and they were seated across from one another in the back of Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel had been drinking a bit more than was typical; the demon, slightly less. One would-be customer had come peering in the windows, and had been summarily sent away with a quite terrifying image projected through the glass.

“My dear, it really is surprising I haven’t found myself cast out of Heaven yet, isn’t it?” 

“Eh?” Crowley peered over his sunglasses, wine swishing pensively in his glass. 

“What with the whole... flaming sword business, you know. And the whole talking back to the archangels business. And the whole _fraternizing_ business!” Aziraphale added, with an almost coy grin. 

Crowley snorted. “Sure. Surprising. Good thing, though.” 

“But what if I _were_ to fall?” 

Crowley scoffed. "Well that would be _bad_. Don't think it'll happen, though. They're not the most competant bunch, up in Heaven. Not as quick to send folks crashing down as they were in the old days, either." 

"You don't think it's likely, then? That I'll Fall, as things are now?" 

"Don't worry, Angel," Crowley soothed with a wave of his hand. "You've already done a lot worse than I ever did. If Heaven was going to cast you out, they would've done it a while ago, now." 

"Hmm..." Aziraphale crossed his legs. "I'll have to do something a bit more bold then..." 

Crowley made a vague sound of agreement before he stalled; blinked, and then stared at Aziraphale. "You'll have to what?" 

"Well, I was just thinking, Dear... perhaps I _should_ Fall." 

Crowley lowered his glass; leaned forward on the settee he was being duly careful not to spill wine on. “That’s not a funny joke, Angel.” 

“I’m not trying to be funny.” Indeed, Aziraphale met his gaze dead-on, blue eyes unlit by humor. 

Crowley felt the beginnings of a sneer twist his mouth, but repressed the reaction. “You want to know what would happen if you Fell?” he asked. “Really? I’ll tell you: boiling sulfur would happen, you fancy that?” 

“Hell wasn’t nearly so bad as I imagined it would be,” Aziraphale said. “And besides, we—we wouldn’t be on opposing sides, anymore.” 

Crowley stared for a moment, elbows coming to rest on his knees, mouth partly open as he searched for an appropriate response. What he settled on, at last, was, “Have you gone _daft_?” 

Aziraphale’s brow creased. “I’m quite serious.” 

“Why the _Heaven_ does this seem like a good idea to you?!” Crowley demanded, standing. “You... you _batty_ angel!” 

Aziraphale, for a beat, looked hurt, but then it morphed into profound offense. “Why not? I’ve been quite _terrified_ of this whole business of Falling, and now I’m not! What’s so wrong about that?” 

“You should be scared!” Crowley hissed. “It’s not something to take lightly, Angel!” 

“I don’t _want_ to be scared anymore!” Aziraphale objected, also getting to his feet. “I don’t want to be scared of _us_, or scared _for_ us!” 

“You’ve got no need!” Crowley replied, exasperated; motioned with his free hand, still careful of the wineglass he held. “Everything’s _okay_, for once! You stupid—_see_, everything’s _fine_!” 

“But that could change,” Aziraphale replied. “Heaven, Hell, they might decide to come after us any time. Everything’s out in the open, now! And just because we’ve given them some reason to let us alone for now doesn’t mean they will forever!” 

“And you think Falling is the answer.” 

“I think it’s _something_,” Aziraphale said defensively, crossing his arms. 

“It’s not!” Crowley heard the desperation seeping into his own voice; cursed himself for it. “It’s not!” 

“But we’d be on the _same side_!” 

“Gaah!” Crowley spun too fast, hands raised in exasperation; spilt his wine despite best intentions. “You _stupid_ thing!” 

“Stupid _thing_?!” Aziraphale repeated, indignant. 

“Blathering on about Falling ‘not being so bad...’ How’re you to know?!” Crowley demanded. 

“I’ve been down to Hell, now,” Aziraphale said, sounding almost reasonable. “This dreaded thing I’ve been so frightened of, _paralyzed_ by fear of... I don’t have any more reason to be afraid!” 

“You’ve got _every_ reason to be afraid,” Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale drew back as though struck. 

“Excuse me?” The angel brought one hand to his chest, taking a profoundly affronted tone. “And what _exactly_ do you mean by that, my scaly old adversary? That I’m so feeble as to cringe from a thing like this? That I’m incapable of enduring a bit of discomfort for _our_ sake?” 

“You’re deluded!” Crowley exclaimed. 

“Well I _beg_ your pardon!” Aziraphale crossed his arms again; took a backwards step away from the other. “If I’m willing to take steps to make sure we aren’t forced apart, then I’m deluded. Certainly. And I see that you’re content to just wait until they come after us all over again, is that it?” 

Crowley felt a stab of real fear—cold, unyielding—crack his breastbone. He lost his breath, for a moment, and then shouted, “No, you stupid—! That’s not it at all! I’m just not willing to let you _Fall_!” 

“It’s not as if you can become an angel again,” Aziraphale said, again sounding just shy of reasonable—feigning patience, although his foot tapped. “There’s no other way for us to really be on the same side, is there? I can become a demon. I can Fall. That’s something that I _can_ do, Crowley, and something I _want_ to, for the sake of all the years that were wasted living in terror of such an event.” 

“You’re being absurd,” Crowley hissed, his teeth grit. “We’re on our _own_ side, blast Heaven and Hell both to oblivion! We don’t have to play their games, abide by the lines _they’ve_ drawn. We—“ 

“We run the risk,” Aziraphale cut in, “of ending up separated, as we are. I’ve been so afraid, Dear One, of ending up like you. I’m not afraid anymore, not now. But if you don’t want me... well...” 

“Where the Heaven did you get that bit of nonsense from?!” Crowley demanded, taking a step forward. “If I don’t _want_ you?!” 

Aziraphale, in turn, took a step back. “I thought you’d be pleased.” 

“Pleased?!” Crowley echoed, sneering. “Pleased?! Aziraphale, you’re not being rational!” 

“Love makes one act irrationally, isn’t that the thing about humanity?” Aziraphale asked plaintively, and Crowley felt the words like a brick to the chest. “Dear boy, for _us_. Don’t you want to stay together, no matter what?” 

Crowley wanted to argue, but his legs had weakened. A thousand times Aziraphale had walked away; a _thousand_ times he had denounced the demon who loved him so dearly. And suddenly, now, the tables seemed turned. Crowely had walked away only once before—and the one time he had, the angel and his bookshop had gone up in flames. The thought of doing it again, of turning away, brought those horrifying memories rushing back. _I wasn’t there... I couldn’t save him... somebody killed—!_

And then, the death-knell: “I’ll go through with this with or without you, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft; left no room for doubt. “If you choose to turn your back, then I’ll simply find you again, when the deed is done. And then you’ll see, it won’t be bad at all.” 

Crowley lost the ability to breathe; to speak, or even to think. He would’ve sat back down if he had any faith in his ability to not end up on the floor. 

“You’re serious, then?” he asked at last, almost a croak. “_That_ serious?” 

And Aziraphale, resolute, nodded.

... ... ... 

Stalking down the sidewalk toward where he’d parked, Crowley _swore_. When he reached it, he nearly kicked the Bentley, but caught himself just in time and twisted; kicked the curb instead, and then shrieked as three of his toes snapped.

“Angel, Angel, Angel, Angel, Azzziraaaphale...!” 

Crowley stumbled; snapped his fingers, but still barely managed the Bentley’s door before his legs gave. He slumped into the seat, slamming the door shut and tearing his sunglasses off before keening wordlessly up at the roof. 

Aziraphale was suffering from a type of intoxication that comes with the sudden and novel lack of fear. Crowley, on the other hand, was paralyzed by all his old terrors rushing back. Not so much the fear of having Fallen—he’d come to terms with that one long ago. What Crowley was afraid of, _terrified_ of, was the possibility that Aziraphale would walk away and leave him behind. 

Aziraphale had done it time and again—he’d renounced Crowley, called him all manner of names, stormed off and proclaimed his heavenly loyalties for all to hear. But the near-world-ending had changed that. They were on _their own side_, as Crowley had known for some time; as Aziraphale had only just outwardly accepted. And Crowley’s fears—the anticipation of the next time his angel would lash out at him; decry him; chase him off—had subsided. 

And now— 

“Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ angel!!” Crowley raged, his pupils blown wide, eyes blazing. Then he shut them tightly, bowing over the steering column and willing the bones in his feet back into their proper positioning. He drew a deep, unsteady breath. 

Even worse was the prospect of losing Aziraphale altogether, to true death or to something worse. 

_Either Aziraphale manages to follow through on this hideously bad idea, or gives up on it on his own, or..._ Crowley shuddered, something eerily reminiscent of hellfire licking at his skin. Imagined or otherwise, he itched with the sensation; felt his breath come faster as if with a great heat. His spine twisted as he writhed, just shy of human—too many vertebrae; too flexible. 

_Or I risk pushing _him_ away, this time, or provoking him to do it to me _again_. _

“Angel... Angel... Angel...!” Again Crowley’s voice rose to an inhuman, wordless shriek. His wings manifested with an explosion of singed black feathers, the scent of burning keratin filling the now-crowded front seat of the Bentley. _Come on, Angel! Come to your _blasted_ senses! _Please_...!_

No passersby stopped to peer questioningly into the antique car’s windows, for Crowley didn’t wish them to. Indeed, to all concerned, nothing was amiss. 

Inside his bookshop, however, about half a block away, an angel raised his head. But no, he decided, he had to be imagining things. Such an anguished wail didn’t suit anyone living in peace-times, and so must be nothing more than an echo of agonies long past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I do hope you enjoy the rest of the fic, as well~


	2. Chapter 2

The little favors—the temptations, the strayings, the _sins_—done for the demon, as per their Arrangement, had prepared the angel for this. 

Aziraphale felt comfortable whispering devilish things in the ears of mortals because he’d been doing it for thousands of years. What set his strangely mortal-feeling heart to racing was an upping of the proverbial ante. Never had Crowley requested such grave things from him. It had always been tempting harmless bits of self-indulgence or causing folks minor inconveniences or prompting questions that were, in fact, quite valid. If Aziraphale had ever bothered to examine the tasks he preformed for the demon Crowley, even he would’ve had to admit they weren’t all that dastardly. 

Now the angel was trying his hand at slightly graver matters. 

“Do you suppose that fellow there has it in him to steal her pocketbook?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley’s face twisted. 

“Come off it, Angel. You wouldn’t.” 

Aziraphale glanced at him across the little outdoor cafe table, a strange glint in his clear eyes. “Crowley, my dear, why wouldn’t I? Isn’t that just the sort of thing a fallen angel should encourage?” 

Crowley’s lip curled, but he couldn’t manage words. All the demon could think was that he _should_ be delighted; that he _should_ encourage this; that he _had_ taken great pleasure in seeing his angel get a bit of enjoyment from the occasional temptation (because Aziraphale did, though he tried to hide it). All Crowley could think, however, was how _sick_ it now made him feel. 

“Watch this,” Aziraphale said, his tea and cakes forgotten as he gazed at the man. Crowley felt a flicker of Influence from him, directed at the fidgety human. He did seem to be the type inclined to such petty thievery—would have seemed that type, if Crowley was inclined to stereotyping, which he tried to avoid given his own personal experience. 

Crowley knew that, though Aziraphale still sat across from him, the young human would be hearing a persistent whispering in his ear. Crowley shivered. He, of all beings, knew how persuasive Aziraphale could be. 

“Angel...” 

“Sh-sh!” Aziraphale hushed softly, waving one hand. “I’ve almost...” 

The man jolted in his seat, and Crowley winced. Aziraphale was leaning forward now, eyes alight with triumph as the man bolted up and snatched the rather weighty purse of the woman sitting beside him. She gave a horrified shriek, on her feet but frozen in place, and several passersby gave belated chase as the man vanished around the corner. 

"There!" Aziraphale exclaimed, giving a small shimmy in his seat. "Simple. Dastardly, wasn't that, my dear?" 

Crowley nodded; focused a spark of demonic magic into the sidewalk beneath them and sent it after the man, tripping him half a block away. One of the good Samaritans who had pursued him caught up, throwing themselves onto the man's back as he tried to get up. 

"Splendidly done," Crowley murmured, to his angel. Then he stood; offered his hand to Aziraphale, who took it willingly. Such a simple action, after six thousand years of delay, was ecstacy, and Crowley reveled in the feeling of their fingers entertwined. Yet Aziraphale's felt a bit colder than usual, and Crowley held is tighter in an attempt to chase away the chill.

... ... ... 

Crowley _thrashed_, then bolted upright where he’d fallen asleep on his apartment floor. He clutched at his sides, checking that his guts were still inside him. The cool air of his apartment soothed away the sensation of boiling sulfur, and Crowley drew a deep, shuddering breath.

_“... and my lot do not send rude notes,”_ he’d told Aziraphale one day, and it was true. His dreams had taken him back, for some truly cruel reason, to a punishment received centuries ago. He’d been fortunate, in some perverse way, that he and Lucifer had been aquatinted before the Fall—if not for the Morning Star’s own intervention, that particular sentence might’ve stretched on for decades more than it did. 

_“Oh! And wherever did you get to for fifty-odd years, dear boy?”_

Crowley remembered laughing weakly, when Aziraphale had asked. He’d all but _dragged_ himself to the angel’s doorstep, still feeling shaky and not at all re-accustomed to a corporeal form yet. He’d spent the last half-century cut in half, left to float in the airless, burning pits, and he kept feeling the phantom sensations of his skin peeling away or his innards slipping out. 

_“Wouldn’t you like to know?”_ he’d asked, sounding just shy of himself. Aziraphale had pouted; hadn’t questioned him further, but had ushered him inside for tea and fresh-baked biscuits. 

Crowley curled inwards, cradling his head. _Aziraphale... Aziraphale... Aziraphale..._ If the angel had convinced himself that one glimpse into the crowded, filthy halls of Hell could prepare him for the horrifying reality of it, he was more short-sighted than Crowley had thought. _He should know... he should know, know, _know_..._

“Angel...” 

Forcing himself to his feet, Crowley tended to his plants in some attempt at distraction. When it didn’t work, he found himself throwing a coat on over his sleep-rumpled shirt and storming out the door into the cool, autumn afternoon. On the hazardously-fast drive over, he cursed under his breath and stumbled over the lyrics of familiar Queen songs. Humans were fond of blaming nightmares on demons, and to an extent they were correct—dreams could be tools to demonic, or angelic, ends. But Crowley had as little control over his _own_ dreams as any mortal, and the remnants of the nightmare clung to him like stubborn grime. 

Although Crowley had precious little awareness of the road, the Bentley delivered him faithfully to the doorstep of the bookshop. Crowley spared a moment to gather himself, one hand combing through his hair. He wondered if Aziraphale would notice his distress; decided that, no, if the angel had failed to notice the marks left by fifty years of torture, he wouldn't notice the aftermath of one pathetic nightmare. So Crowley stepped from the Bentley, gave himself a thorough shake, and then snapped his fingers to unlock the bookshop door. It opened for him, and he pushed inside. 

"Angel! You home?" A rhetorical question to announce his presence; he could _feel_ that Aziraphale was there. 

And, a moment later, the answer: "In here, Dear! Just sorting through some new arrivals." 

Crowley took a deep breath, then followed the angel’s voice into deeper into the shop. Aziraphale, true to his word, was methodically shelving the contents of a battered cardboard box. 

“Sit down, sit down,” Aziraphale tutted. “I’ll be through here in a jiffy.” 

Crowley thought to refuse, for a moment, but then weariness and habit made him grumble an agreement. He sunk down, the worn plush of the antique armchair like an embrace. 

"Heard anything interesting from your folks, as of late?" Aziraphale asked, by way of smalltalk. 

Crowley had not, in fact, and had no desire to discuss such things. They had no _need_ to discuss such things, in his firm opinion, and so he said, "No," with an unspoken refusal to elaborate. 

Aziraphale didn't seem to catch his meaning. "No? Neither have I... Can't say that's distressing, of course, but it is a bit... odd. How do you suppose they'll react, when I Fall? I don't anticipate Gabriel will take too kindly to it, but Archangels hold no power over demons, you know." 

Crowley tried to let the words pass over him, but each one snagged at him like burs in his wings. And worse, Aziraphale just _carried on_ like that, chatting about how lovely it would be to finally be free of Gabriel's petty critisism. 

"That's already taken care of," Crowley said, at some point. "I breathed hell fire in the tosser's face. He's not going to bother you." 

"That's not the point, Crowley," Aziraphale said, with such an amused smile that Crowley's anger fizzled and vanished. "You did splendid, though. Wish I could've seen it." 

"Y-Yeah... yours, too..." Crowley mumbled, although it was hardly a coherent response. He thought of Aziraphale, as the demon Crowley, lounging in a bath of holy water; asking, in his inimitable, winning way, for a rubber duck. It would've been a sight, indeed. 

Aziraphale shivered, drawing Crowley's attention once again. "It’s a tad chilly, don’t you think so?" 

Crowley didn’t, in fact, think so. Aziraphale looked pale. 

“You need to stop, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale blinked, seeming genuinely puzzled. “Stop? Stop what?” 

Crowley’s lip curled, golden eyes flickering, but he couldn’t put it into words. _Stop, stop, stop!_ he wanted to scream, but couldn’t. 

Aziraphale didn’t look well. 

Crowley watched, from his seat in the old armchair, as Aziraphale tidied up a row of shelves. He moved with a slight stumble, as though battling with an early-morning stiffness that had become permanent. His breath was short. 

“Angel...” 

“What are you going to call me after this, dear?” Aziraphale asked abruptly. “Once ‘Angel’ isn’t so appropriate?” 

Crowley felt his insides twist in a replica of human nausea; he shook his head and didn’t reply, and Aziraphale didn’t press him. 

“I’ve heard that there’s dancing, in hell,” Aziraphale carried on idly, and he did a quick bit of a prance to the side. 

“Not any gavottes, that’s for sure.” 

“Well, perhaps I can learn whatever it is you lot do dance. It must be sinfully fun, or else you wouldn’t bother.” 

“Un... yea...” Crowley muttered. “Don’t think you’ll care for them, that much.” 

“It really is quite nippy in here!” Aziraphale said, and there was a soft rustling as the angel’s wings blossomed into being. 

Crowley made a terrible, strangled little noise. 

“Oh, my dear, what is it?” Aziraphale asked, wrapping the trailing edge of one wing over his shoulders; petting it idly with one hand as he sought warmth in the feathers. 

“Angel, they’re—“ Crowley choked on what he’d been about to say, and in the end managed only a soft: “They’re so beautiful...” 

Aziraphale smiled. “They won’t be this color for much longer, my dear boy, so do commit it to memory.” 

Crowley stared, golden eyes stretched wide, and he nodded. But it wasn’t the dim lighting of the bookshop, he was now certain; something had already changed. 

Aziraphale’s wings looked as dusty as his most neglected books ever became, their brilliance dulled by a layer of soft gray. Slowly Crowley stood, his legs for once feeling like they belonged to a being of six-thousand years. Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, but didn’t break from his work as Crowley approached. 

“My dear boy, I didn’t know you had such a sentimental streak,” he said, when Crowley ran a hand along the ridge of one wing. 

“You did...” Crowley dismissed, feeling the feathers tremble slightly beneath his hand. They were as soft as ever—at least there was that. “Don’t stop taking care of them, okay?” 

“What?” 

“De... Demons...” Crowley began vaguely, his hand still stoking the angel’s wing; his eyes still glassy and fixed on the dingy feathers. He blinked, trying to focus at least enough to put his thought into words. “They, aah... their wings, tend to, how'd you say, _wither_. They stop carin’ for ‘em, ‘cause they’re useless anyway, so they... wither. And fall off.” 

“But you still have wings, dear,” Aziraphale pointed out. 

Crowley shrugged. “Never stopped carin’.” 

“What do you mean, useless?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Have you seen _me_ fly?” 

Aziraphale seemed to think for a moment; blinked slowly as that settled in. “Oh.” 

“Angel—“ 

“I can’t even remember the last time I flew,” Aziraphale cut him off, rather forcefully blasé. “Rather too much trouble, these days. Won’t miss it a bit.” 

Crowley’s throat ached with arguments, with _furious_ objections—_he_ missed it, and missed it terribly, and how _dare_ Aziraphale be so blithe?! But, fingers still meshed with the angel’s plush feathers, Crowley hadn’t the strength to argue. He bent his head and, as Aziraphale returned to his tidying, he mourned.

... ... ... 

Aziraphale had been hinting rather forcefully that he had business to attend to for _hours_ now; Crowley, usually so prompt to pick up on and respect such signals, hadn’t budged from his armchair. At one point, Aziraphale thought he might’ve fallen asleep (which wouldn’t have been entirely out of character, mind), but then Crowley had offered an offhanded comment about the weather and how the ducks in St. James Park were responding to the unseasonable rain.

“If you’re planning on staying the night, _Dear_,” Aziraphale said eventually, driven halfway to distraction, “you should _retire_ upstairs. I'm not planning to sleep, tonight, so there's no point in waiting up." 

Crowley spared him a sad-eyed look from his chair, but then stood and stretched—an improbable stretch, by human standards, spine elongating and shoulder blades cracking into alignment. “That’s fine, Angel. No need to extend such... _generous_ allowances. I’ll be on my way, if you’ve tired of my company.” 

Aziraphale huffed. The bed upstairs was _primarily_ for Crowley’s use; they both knew that. “Stay, if you’d like. You know you’re welcome. Or don't. Perhaps you'd sleep more comfortably in your own bed." 

"You know I never do," Crowley replied, although the comment somehow lacked the requiste playfullness. "Come up with me." 

Aziraphale frowned. "I'm going to keep on, here." 

Crowley swayed where he stood, seeming suddenly lost. After a long moment, he asked, softly, "Are you going to do it, then? Fall, for real? As soon as I leave?" 

Aziraphale blinked. "That's a work very much in progress," was his reply. "I wouldn't know how to do it at will, even if I had such a notion." 

Crowley relaxed slightly, then sunk back down into his chair. "I'll... stay here a bit longer. If that's alright." 

Aziraphale huffed, but offered no retort. He wondered if Crowley might truly fall asleep, and yet held out no such hope. So he returned to his books, resigned to spending at least a bit more of his night in the well-worn company of the demon. Though the stubborn companionship may grow wearisome, at times, it would never truly grow old, and he caught himself smiling as he listened to Crowley hum _Somebody to Love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless, if you guys have reached the end of chapter two! Your readership means the world~ 
> 
> It's a trip to be posting all six chapters of this at a time. If the fancy strikes you to leave a comment throughout, it would literally make my life~ But the fic will be up in its entirety momentarily, regardless. c:


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy Gabriel, as a character. Doesn't mean I have to like him. :P

Crowley left late into the night; Aziraphale practically had to shove him out the door, and after promising that he wouldn’t do anything more about this Falling business _at least_ until Crowley returned in the morning. 

Crowley didn’t sleep. He stared up at the sky, instead, at the stars, and by the dawn he’d decided that the angel wasn’t going to kick him out again; that he’d spend that night, _every_ night, if necessary. 

The London streets were near-empty, but a few people searched for that first cup of coffee or hurried to beat the sun home after nights spent out. Crowley paid them no mind as he walked. He’d left the Bentley in covered parking, several blocks away, since he didn’t intend to leave for some time. The short walk helped to clear his mind, in any case. He thought of Aziraphale—there was nothing else _to_ think of. 

Crowley’s nostrils flared, and he stopped. Though it took him a moment to place the scent, it triggered sparks of panic that leaped across his skin like demented fireflies. He took a step, then two, then _ran_—reached Aziraphale’s bookstore just as a well-dressed figure raised a hand to knock at the antique door.

“Get _away_!” Crowley hissed, sliding between the door and the broad-shouldered man. It would’ve been too tight a spot for any human to fit into, but Crowley—Antony Crowley was a Hell-born serpent. 

The archangel Gabriel paused, hand still raised, and blinked. If he was alarmed, he hid it well. “Crowley...” he said. “I’m surprised you’re out here, and not...” He jabbed a finger up at the shop’s second floor. 

“Get out of here.” Crowley’s voice was low, and his sunglasses had miraculously disappeared into his pocket. The panic was more than sparks, now—a fire searing his skin. If Gabriel saw the condition Aziraphale was in, he would _know_ in an instant—if he didn’t already know; if that wasn’t why he was here. 

“Calm down,” Gabriel said, almost a chuckle, and Crowley bristled. He felt his teeth sharpen involuntarily, but didn’t try to blunt them again; instead bore them to Gabriel, who suddenly looked a tad bit less confident. 

“Leave,” Crowley said, and then rammed a fist up into Gabriel’s ribcage. The angel didn’t falter, grabbing Crowley’s narrow shoulders and wrestling him away from the door. Crowley spat and struggled; writhed out of Gabriel’s grip and tripped the archangel with a well-timed kick to the shin. 

Gabriel gasped, but didn’t go down. He grabbed for Crowley again, but the demon twisted away; scrabbled and managed to push Gabriel back towards an alleyway beside the bookshop. 

No humans noticed the scuffle; they hurried past it on whatever terribly urgent business they had. 

Though substantially quicker, Crowley had less mass than the archangel; his punches had less force behind them. So when Gabriel’s fist drilled into Crowley’s side he gasped; felt two ribs snap. Gabriel tried to grab him about the waist, hands nearly encircling his middle, but again Crowley slithered out of his grasp. Heart in his throat, beating far faster than any human’s would’ve been capable of, he lunged; bashed the heal of his hand against Gabriel’s nose; heard a satisfying _crunch_ and felt the warm gush of blood against his palm. 

Gabriel had a hold of him, then, in proper; one powerful hand squeezed his shoulder until it creaked, and the other trapped one wrist against the small of his back. Gabriel slammed Crowley face-first against the filthy alleyway wall and, no matter how the serpent twitched and twisted and spat, he couldn’t get free. 

“Would you... kindly...” the archangel ground out, and Crowley gave a stifled shout as his hands burned with holy intent, “listen to me, you stupid, _wretched_ demon?” 

Crowley forced a breathless chuckle. “You won’t like what I do next...” he warned, flexing his fingers. His nails tapered into claws, just long enough to scrape at Gabriel’s skin. He felt the archangel shudder with revulsion. “You heard what happened in Hell, I’m sure. If you think holy water, or anything else in your Godly arsenal will get me to _talk_, then—“ 

“But that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” Gabriel said, his voice trying to be cordial and not quite succeeding. Crowley bucked against him, and Gabriel pressed down until the demon’s flesh began to steam where his hands were fixed. Crowley choked on a pained noise. “This business that happened in Hell _and_ Heaven that day.” 

Crowley’s vision buzzed with pain, the archangel’s touch overwhelming. Aziraphale had accidentally singed him once or twice, when his emotions were running especially high, but that had been unintentional; without malice. This, this was _painful_, disorienting. He couldn’t find his tongue. 

“This is your fault, I know it,” Gabriel continued, seeming almost distracted. “Aziraphale was never the holiest, but it wasn’t like _this_. He stood within hell fire and he _smiled_, and now—! This is your doing, demon.” 

“I’ll _destroy_ you if you so much as _touch_ him!” Crowley hissed, and his skin rippled with scales. He felt fangs lengthen until they _hurt_ within his human mouth. 

“Do you know how much trouble it’ll cause if he Falls?” Gabriel said, his voice low. Crowley, surprised, stilled, and Gabriel’s grip tightened. “I can only keep the others from investigating this for so long. This’ll be _worse_ than that scandal with the apocalypse—worse than the bit with the hell fire! Do you realize how long it’s been since one of ours _Fell_? It’s the intent, you see. Aziraphale has done far worse things, but now he means to Fall, and that’s really more bothersome than any great sins he might commit.” 

“You aren’t here to...?” Crowley breathed, and then gasped as Gabriel drove him again against the side of the building. 

“You two are both abominations, wretched _perversions_.” Gabriel spoke close to Crowley’s ear; sent waves of revulsion up the demon’s spine. “Neither Heaven nor Hell wants anything to do with you. But if Aziraphale Falls, really Falls, then we’ll be forced to involve ourselves. No one wants that. So now, demon, care to tell me what the Hell is going on?” 

Between desperate exhaustion, useless fury, the pain of Gabriel’s hands on him and his profound hatred of the archangel, Crowley felt in danger of weeping. But he didn’t; couldn’t; refused to, and squinted his burning eyes. 

“Leave us _alone_...” 

“Trust me, I’d like nothing better,” Gabriel said, with false cheer. “But again, if Aziraphale Falls...” 

“He won’t,” Crowley ground out. “I swear it. I’ll figure something out. I won’t let him, I _promise_ you.” 

“What good is the oath of a demon?” 

“Fuck off!” Crowley snarled, twisting out of his human skin to snap at Gabriel with razor fangs. Gabriel leaped back, watching in blatant disgust as Crowley shook himself, trying to force his neck into a more human shape again; letting his jaw unhinge and hang limp when his fangs refused to fit inside his mouth. He slotted it back into place with one hand, then rolled his shoulders to get his spine realigned. 

“I’ll fix it,” he said at last, and turned on Gabriel with a searing, sulfuric gaze. “I’ll figure something out.” 

“You’d better,” Gabriel replied, “if you value your life as it is. Heaven _and_ Hell will be very, _very_ put out, should we need to intervene.” 

“Just stay out of it,” Crowley muttered, slinking past Gabriel. “I’ll fix things myself.” 

“Demon Crowley!” Gabriel called out, and Crowley almost didn’t respond. But he stopped; turned halfway back, sunglasses in-hand. “There are those in Heaven who might think differently than I. Aziraphale isn’t well-liked. I’ll keep them from finding out as long as I can. Your Fly Lord thinks the same, so ze’ll act as I am.” 

Crowley was caught by genuine surprise. “Beelzebub thinks so...?” he repeated slowly. 

“Neither of us want _anything_ to do with the two of you, _ever_ again!” Gabriel exclaimed, all false-grin and over-dramatic shrug. “And if you force our hands, we’ll make sure you suffer!” 

Crowley laughed faintly, for lack of anything else to say, then nodded. He was grateful when Gabriel vanished from being with a poof of violet smoke. After a moment more, swaying slightly where he stood, he trudged back towards the bookshop. 

“Oh!” Though Crowley let himself in, Aziraphale was there almost instantly to meet him. “My dear boy, whatever happened? You look like hell warmed over! ... If you’ll pardon the expression.” 

One look at Aziraphale’s eyes—more watery than they should be, and shadowed—made Crowley’s spine come undone. Already clinging to his human form by the barest threads of sinew, he let himself dissolve into coils of black scales on the bookshop floor. 

Demons could cry—they wouldn’t, shouldn’t, but _could_. For snakes, it was a biological impossibility. Even as Aziraphale bundled him up with a worried tutting, it was a biological impossibly.

... ... ... 

Aziraphale didn’t argue when Crowley refused to leave, that night. It might’ve had something to do with the fast that Crowley had also remained in his snake form for the duration of the day, and most of it he’d spent sleeping. Crowley told himself this was all calculated (during the brief periods when he was half-awake in order to tell himself such things).

Late into the night—two, or perhaps three in the morning—Crowley stirred in earnest. The scents awaiting him in the waking world—strong coffee and sushi—pulled him further out of sleep, and then coaxed him into an indulgent stretch of lanky human limbs. 

“Ah. Morning, dear boy.” Aziraphale sat watching him, a book in his lap—clearly just put down. At the angel’s side was a mug of cocoa, but from the scent of it it had long gone cold. “You worried me, dropping like that. What happened?” 

Crowley shook his head slowly; dragged himself, legs still not feeling quite _natural_, not quite _his_, to within reach of the side table beside the couch he’d been placed upon. Coffee was one of the human substances he appreciated the most (as a serpent, things like cold could make him feel unbearably and inconveniently drowsy, which coffee did something to combat), and he sipped appreciatively at the cup that Aziraphale had kept piping hot for him. He breathed out heavily, relieved, his breath stirring up a cloud of steam that bathed his face. 

“Don’t tell me, then.” Aziraphale shut his book with a snap. “At least eat a little something. It’ll do your body good.” 

“I’m fine, Angel...” Crowley twisted onto his back, stretching a particularly nasty knot from his shoulder. “The coffee’s revived me. Truly an elixir of life.” 

Aziraphale frowned, but didn’t press. He opened his book again, leafing through until he found the page he’d left off on, and then resumed his reading. Crowley watched him for a moment, halfway hanging off the sofa upside down, and then righted himself in his seat. He sipped his coffee for a moment, feeling the lingering ache in the places that Gabriel’s hands had assaulted. 

“Aziraphale.” 

“Hmm?” 

“This has to stop. This business about Falling.” 

Aziraphale looked up, blinking. “Stop? Again with this. Of course. When the thing’s done, then we’ll—“ 

“Not _when the thing’s done_, Angel,” Crowley hissed. “Now. You can’t Fall. That’s that. Call it off.” 

“But I’m tired of it, Crowley!” Aziraphale objected. “You must be, too—all the hiding, the _constant_ looking-over-the-shoulder...” 

“Why now?” Crowley spat. “Why not a hundred years ago—a thousand?” 

“I was _frightened_, Dear, terribly so!” Aziraphale stood, visibly flustered, now; indignant. “I’m not anymore!” 

“Oh, you’re not frightened,” Crowley mimicked. “Then you think you get t’just... just turn _both_ our worlds all flippity-down just because _you_ aren’t _frightened_ anymore?” 

“You’re a _demon_, Crowley! I would think that you’d be—“ 

“I’m a demon,” Crowley cut in, on his feet now. “And you’ve _never_ let me forget it, as if I could!” 

“What are you _talking_ about?” Aziraphale’s voice turned plaintive. 

“‘Get behind me, foul field!’” Crowley hissed, then drew back his lip. “‘I don’t even like you!’ ‘_Heredity enemies_!’ You, _Angel_, have _never_ let me forget, not for one Hellish moment!” 

“But that could all be over!” Aziraphale said, sounding baffled. “Crowley, Dear—“ 

“Don’t you ‘Crowley, Dear’ me, Angel!” Crowley snapped, and then stumbled. A wave of dizziness hit, and he hissed, “Not now, don’t you _dare_ fail me now...!” to his own borrowed body. Eyes blown wide, he screeched an objection at the weakening of flesh; demanded more of it than it was capable. Still, his body—like his car, and like his house-pants—was easily bullied, and it stayed upright despite the tax on muscles and bones. 

Aziraphale’s arms appeared to support him; guided him backwards and onto the couch. Crowley tried to hiss or snap something angry, but his tongue had stopped working as if by some perverse miracle. 

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, dear... That’s all in the past, now. I’m going to join you, you see. To decry you would be to decry my own self, Dear, so please...” Aziraphale peppered kisses along Crowley’s jawline, then pulled a throw blanket over Crowley’s lap. “I love you, Dear, so please...” 

And Crowley found a piece of delicately seared ahi tuna waved beneath his nose like a smelling salt. If only to please Aziraphale, if only out of habit, he opened his mouth. 

“It wasn’t nearly so bad, as you’ve made it sound,” Aziraphale said, striking an almost conversational tone as he fed Crowley another piece of fish. “Damnation, Hell, all that crock. It was quite fun, actually!” 

“You don’t know the half of it...” Crowley mumbled, but allowed another bite onto his tongue. Aziraphale, knowing he preferred eating only a few morsels at a time, drew back. 

“I plan to find out. I’m looking quite forward to it,” he said, with such dignity that Crowley was almost convinced. A moment later, Aziraphale sat beside him; pressed close against him. “I do love you, dear one.” 

“I don’t want _this_...” Crowley groaned, but leaned into Aziraphale in turn. The contact steadied him as much as the food, if not more-so, though the angel wasn’t as warm as he should’ve been.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason for that M rating, folks! 
> 
> CW: blood, gore, and guts; body horror, wing horror, etc., plus a nice dip in a sulfur bath

_“Suppose I Fall? Suppose there’s no need, then, to hide any longer?” _

_”You’d better, if you value your life as it is. Heaven and Hell will be very, very put out, should we need to intervene.” _

_”I do love you, dear one.” _

Crowley started awake, grasping at his chest with a clawed hand. He hunched forward, catching his breath where he sat on one of Aziraphale’s plush davenports. 

_I have to... somehow..._

Getting to his feet, feeling suddenly quite unsteady, Crowley crept through the bookshelves. He rounded a corner to find Aziraphale stationed at the shop’s front window, gazing out into the street—deserted in the pre-dawn. The traffic light within sight of the window was flicking, almost pensively, through it’s range of colors. 

“Angel?” 

Aziraphale turned, and the traffic light settled on green; Crowley felt his guts twist with unease, despite Aziraphale’s warm smile. 

“Crowley. Dear. I’m so sorry for how hard this seems to be on you. You look wretchedly tired, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” 

“I forgive you...” Crowley mumbled, and then said, “But _Azzziraphale_, be reasonable, I mean—“ 

“It’ll all be over and done with soon enough,” Aziraphale said, and returned his gaze to the intersection. “Not to worry.” 

“We’re already together,” Crowley appealed. “That’s all I need, believe me. I’m not—I don’t plan on going back to Hell, anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you couldn’t come along, I mean—“ 

“But if things _do_ go wrong, we mustn’t be split up. And I’m not at all up to playing Heaven’s game anymore, not at all.” 

“Hell makes you play games, too!” Crowley said, now a desperate appeal. “We—We aren’t a part of that now, though—neither of us are! There’s no need to—“ 

“But I _want_ to, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s tone—gently insistent, just a touch imploring, the beginnings of a pout on his soft lips—stole away all of Crowley’s motivation. The demon let out a breath without words, and Aziraphale smiled at him. 

As the sun began to rise, the demon eased down into a delicately embroidered chair. He watched the angel glued to the window, analyzing the moment of traffic. 

_This’ll do it..._ Crowley thought, his mind gone a bit hazy. He got up once to fetch a cup of coffee, then added a slightly miraculous dash of liquor to it. _If he does this... this is..._

Crowley’s body felt heavy with weariness. He watched with glassy yellow eyes as Aziraphale toyed with the traffic light, even as the streets grew busier. A horn blared, and the angel gave a little hop. 

In his excitement, Aziraphale’s wings flashed suddenly into being, soot-grey; Crowley was on his feet without ever intending to get up. His hand darted out, even as there was a tremendous screech of tires and a metal-on-metal _crash_. Then, as Aziraphale peered out the window, Crowley moved to stand beside him. 

“My, such a pity!” Aziraphale exclaimed, after a moment. “No fatalities...” 

And Crowley let out a sigh, thanking _whoever_ had allowed his demonic intervention to go through.

... ... ... 

A tin of biscuits sat mildewing on one of the kitchen counters. Crowley granted it a regretful glance as he passed it by, fetching a bottle of wine from the refrigerator.

Aziraphale sat curled on one end of a couch, reading. When Crowley smushed into his side, he shifted to be slightly more accommodating, but otherwise didn’t respond. They passed the wine between them a couple of times, and eventually Crowley broke the comfortable silence. 

“That business with the cars, earlier... th-there’s no reason to take things _that_ far, you know, it’s just... no need, yknow?” 

“Mm... I was thinking the same.” 

Crowley stiffened, hope fluttering to life like the dove Aziraphale had accidentally suffocated that brief lifetime ago at young Warlock’s birthday party. “You do?” 

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. “Yes... yes, I was thinking... it’s not about _humans_, really. I don’t have any desire to hurt _them_, you know.” 

“Yes... Yes, that’s it...!” Crowley said, beginning to sit up. 

“Right,” Aziraphale continued, gazing off into his shadowy bookshelves. “It’s not the humans, but it’s _Heaven_ that I wish to cut ties with, you see. Tomorrow I’ll take it straight Upstairs. Denouncing God—that’s all it comes down to, isn’t it? But in a church...? Or might I risk bursting into flames, if I did that, do you think?” He gave a soft, earnest chuckle, and Crowley’s breath stopped entirely. “That time you came into that church for me... oh, did I ever thank you properly for that, Dear...? Oh, but I don’t fancy going through that myself, so... Well, if it began to hurt, I suppose I’d know the thing was working... I could run out all lickety-split... I’m sure it wouldn’t do any permanent damage, even if it did _sting_ just a mite. The devil looks after his own, isn’t that the phrase?” 

Crowley felt like pulling out his hair by its roots might be the most accurate representation of what he was feeling, but he settled for wringing his hands until they _hurt_. 

Aziraphale leaned back into the couch; nuzzled against Crowley, and whispered, “My dear, thank you...” 

“E-Eeh...?” 

“For making my fears... _disappear_.” Aziraphale made a motion as if he was playing at a magic trick. 

Crowley’s eyes widened a fraction. “Fears...” 

“It was so _wearisome_...” Aziraphale sighed. “All the hiding. And they _lying_, oh gracious! Lying to Heaven, to God Herself, to myself... and of course to you. I’m sorry for that, Crowley...” 

“‘S fine, Angel... all’s forgiven...” Crowley mumbled. 

Aziraphale chuckled, and then his wings rustled into being. He shifted so that one was behind Crowley, tucking the demon up close and nuzzling in. Crowley couldn’t detect a hint of warmth from him, and ran a loving hand through dull feathers that had grown dry and brittle. 

“What’ll you call me, Love, when I’m no longer an angel? Really?” 

Crowley smiled—a tiny, bitter smile, but a smile nonetheless. “You’ll always...” His voice nearly cracked, but he swallowed; whispered, “You’ll always be _my angel_, Angel, even when you’re... when you’re the most dastardly demon among all of us.” 

“Oh, Crowley...” Aziraphale chuckled, his eyes closing as Crowley nuzzled in and kissed his temple. “Love, I don’t deserve... don’t...” 

Aziraphale trailed off; wondered why he couldn’t find the words, and became aware of a dull, persistent ache deep in his wings. He blinked; looked over, and startled upright at the sight of empty space beside him. The bookshop, too, was gone; the couch vanished from beneath him. 

“Crowley? Darling?” 

It wasn’t Crowley that answered him. 

“Aziraphale... Guardian of the Eastern Gate...” A velvet snarl of a voice sent waves of instinctive panic though Aziraphale, and he spun, searching for its source. Only shadows filled his vision, and the voice wreathed around him, impossible to pinpoint. “You belong to me, now...” 

“Aziraphale,” came a second soft, deeply disappointed voice from above. Aziraphale turned towards it and immediately threw up a hand, hissing as the brilliance of Her light seared his eyes. “My foolish child... I can do no more, for you. I will grieve for you.” 

“W-Wait, I can explain—!” Aziraphale began, and then cringed from a flash of blinding white Grace. God had gone, leaving a void that seemed the embodiment of despair in Her absence. 

“I’m all you have now, _Darling_,” crooned the voice of the Morning Star, and again Aziraphale spun, searching for Lucifer’s leering face. He found only nothingness, and began to tremble. 

“I’m n-not afraid!” Aziraphale’s voice sounded tiny as he raised it, and Lucifer’s answering laughter made him stagger. 

“That’s good, little one. Your sanity might just hold, then. Pity to lose your pretty little mind before I can make good use of it.” 

“What...?!” Aziraphale tried for indignation, but his breath was stolen by a sudden and involuntary drop as his footing went out from underneath him. He flailed, wings automatically unfurling as if to catch him. The scorched air tore through them, and his fall didn’t slow. 

With a strangled noise of alarm, Aziraphale flapped his wings; gained no traction. His own feathers wiped around him in a demented cyclone, catching fire as they fluttered by. He pitched, unable to orient himself, and tumbled downwards in an uncontrolled spin. Dizzy, disoriented, he folded his arms up around his face and screeched a prayer. 

The words burnt his tongue, and then dissolved entirely into an anguished scream. 

The scent reached him first, and his _knew_—knew from Crowley’s stories, those haunted recountings that had always left him rattled and trembling with fear more suited to a mortal heart. Crowley’s eyes would glow, hunted, horrified, as he recalled what Aziraphale could now smell; could now feel the vapors of licking at his skin. 

_A pit of boiling—_

Liquid sulfur reached up to engulf him, a scalding, deadly embrace. Choking on the stench, floundering in the caustic, bubbling pool, Aziraphale struggled to keep his face above the surface. Feathers ignited when they touched down around him, each one bathing him in showers of spark and flame as they perished. 

Aziraphale tried again for a prayer and choked; convulsed as he spat up blood, and went under. The sulfur filled his nose and mouth, blinded him, and he screamed into the unyielding, Hellish abyss. His flesh seethed, melting away from bone; his struggles weakened as muscles burned away and ligaments snapped. He felt his bones dry and crack in the unforgiving heat; felt his organs boil inside their cavities and then pour free, brain leaking through ear canals and liquified guts dripping from gaping mouth. 

_It hurts... it _hurts_...!_ Whether his eyes were open or shut, he couldn’t tell; he doubted he still _had_ eyes, one way or the other. All that existed was darkness and pain—and the faint echo of Lucifer’s laughter in his wrecked skull. _Help me... help me, someone...! Crowley!_

Aziraphale hit solid ground, gasping brokenly against what felt like burning stone. He braced, feeling his limbs at least intact, and tried to push upright. His wings, splayed on either side of him, twitched with useless struggle. 

“Aziraphale.” It was Lucifer’s honied voice, and it wormed it’s sticky way under his tattered skin. Aziraphale’s mouth stretched wide, but only blood and fluids emerged in place of words. “Is it as you imagined? Is this what—“ 

“Aziraphale! Angel!” 

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, his dead-weight wings trying to rise. 

“Crow...” he choked out, and reached toward the voice. His fingers had been stripped down to the bare bones and sinew. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted again, and all at once he was _there_, fighting through the stifling darkness and flames with a beating of elderich wings. He skidded to a halt, then locked eyes with Aziraphale. The look of abject horror and disgust that twisted his face made Aziraphale’s whole body feel cold despite the crippling heat—he’d lived six thousand years, and would have lived six thousand more believing that Crowley would never look at him in such a way. 

“A-Angel, don’t... don’t worry...!” Crowley called, stumbling forward. “I’m—!” 

A weight came down, invisible, on Crowley’s shoulders, and Aziraphale gave a hoarse shout as the demon went to his knees. Crowley struggled, wings battering against unseen forces with all the will and passion he possessed. And, all along, he kept calling out—_Angel; it’ll be okay; I’m coming; Aziraphale; don’t worry; hang on; I’m here; Aziraphale; Angel; Angel; Angel..._

And then, slowly, speech lapsed into screaming. 

The tips of Crowley’s primary feathers caught fire, and it traveled steadily along the upper ridge of his wings. Each feather seemed to ignite individually until at last the fire reached his body in proper, and he was overtaken. Writhing, he collapsed, words dissolving into shrieks and rising to a terrible, desperate pitch. Aziraphale’s whole body resonated with the death-screams of his demon, and he wailed in resonance. 

Chains coiled around Crowley’s blazing body, dragging him down into a fissure in the stone ground. Aziraphale tried to follow, tried to _crawl_, but something heavy came down into the center of his back; snapped his spine and forced him down against the ground. 

“He won’t die,” came Lucifer’s voice, quieter this time; closer. Even as Aziraphale clawed weakly at the ground, his spine fractured vertebrae by vertebrae, up from the point where he’d first been pinned. “Oh, he’ll wish for it, but he won’t. He’s headed down to the ninth circle, and he’ll never find his way out. He’ll burn until every memory of Heaven, every memory of Earth, every memory of _you_, is ash. And then he’ll beg for death, and be _denied_.” 

“No... no...!” Aziraphale croaked. “He... he...!” 

“His punishment is well-deserved. What kind of demon tries to keep an angel from Falling?” Satan asked, and then tutted. “Oh no. You’re our greatest victory in millennia.” 

“No... no, help...! Someone...!” Aziraphale gasped out. “Crowley, he—! Someone! Help!” 

“Help for you? Or help for your Crowley?” Lucifer chuckled. “It doesn’t matter now, of course...” 

Aziraphale felt the fractures start branching out from his broken spine: ribs snapped, one at a time; long-bones crumbled, and he collapsed as they did. There were hands, phantom talons on his wings now, clawing, tearing away at the charred remains of the limbs. He felt tears dripping down his face, but they were hot and sticky, more like molten tar than human tears. 

“No... no, no, no! Not—! Not like THIS...!” 

“Welcome, Mr. Fell,” said Lucifer, his voice deceptively warm. He chortled. “Feel it—the pain, and the anger. The _fear_. Take it into your soul and hold it close, hold it dear.” 

The body Aziraphale had become so attached to—identified so strongly with; loved, for what it signified—was mangled and tattered to the point of it unrecognizable. As Aziraphale tried once more, desperately, hopelessly, to crawl away, his wings disintegrated entirely, leaving only gaping, raw holes in their place. 

_Crowley..._ His throat had been gouged, vocal chords hanging in useless tangles and tongue burned away, but he screeched it in his mind. _Crowley...! I’m sorry...!! I’m such a fool, I—I’m sorry!!_

His vision darkened, awareness of the world shrinking. But even as he cried out, _wailed_ for the respite of unconscious, his mind clung to itself. 

If he slept, he thought, he might never wake again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [Jadeykinns](https://jadeydoodles.tumblr.com/) for the artwork featured in this chapter!!

The demon Crowley wept. He wept not for the sake of himself, for his own soul, but for that of his beloved. 

_Unforgivable. That’s part of a demon’s job description._

_”I forgive you,”_ Aziraphale had once told him, standing there in middle of the busy London street. Crowley clung to that memory, replaying it over and over again, although he hoped never to hear his angel utter those words again. 

If Aziraphale said those words to him again, it might very well destroy him. 

Crowley crouched atop the couch, his shoes leaving filthy prints on the tartan fabric. Aziraphale was beside him, cherubic face contorted with pain and terror. The pads of Crowley’s fingers pressed against the angel’s temple, occasionally shifting their position as if tuning a dial. 

Humans had blamed demons for the phenomenon of nightmares for thousands of years. Once, Aziraphale had asked Crowley about it; Crowley had laughed it off, saying he’d never tried. In reality, he hadn't wanted to admit that he didn’t have the stomach to disturb sleep; didn’t see the profit in such things. Other demons often used it as a means of entertainment or persuasion, he knew. For Crowley, sleep was one of the few respites he enjoyed; the notion of disrupting that respite for another was sacrilege. 

Crowley, too, had quite the imagination. He’d discovered—accidentally, and to his horror—that he had much more talent for realistic dreams than most of his kin. 

“Forgive me...” he whispered, and didn’t mean it. Aziraphale must _never_ discover this deception, not as long as they both existed. And, even if he did, his forgiveness for such a betrayal would leave Crowley gutted and lost to true despair. 

_Now... how to end it..._ This would be the really difficult trick. Thus far, Aziraphale had been engulfed in a mixture of Crowley’s own memories and total fiction. Ending the scenario—the “narrow escape” bit—without giving up the game wouldn’t be easy. There had been the near-maddening temptation, of course, to make _himself_ the hero, but that simply wouldn’t do. Then Aziraphale might actually believe him capable of such feats, or even worse see through the illusion immediately. So Crowley had allowed himself an appearance, but been struck down with tragic efficiency in his attempt at rescue. In the real world, too, he altered his own appearance to match the tale—rent one of his wings out of its socket and fractured the other along its radius, then singed and ruffled their feathers. He tore his clothes; painted burns along his forearms and face. 

He couldn’t bring himself to do the same to Aziraphale. But the pain, if not any physical evidence of the injuries, would follow the angel into the waking world, he knew. 

_Now... a way to end it..._

Though the link wasn’t perfect telepathy, Crowley could feel the angel writhing in agony; he could hear Aziraphale screaming, Crowley’s own name gasped out desperately between wordless wails. All in all, it was a rather distracting thing; he wished Aziraphale would pass out and give him a moment to think. But the angel clung stubbornly to consciousness—clung to it like life itself. Crowley’s heart lurched. 

_Aah... shit._ He itched, practically _seethed_ to end the thing, now that his purpose had been accomplished, but began to panic as no solution came to his mind. _He has to believe it all happened... I can’t... at the last minute... it _has_ to be believable, or it’ll be for nothing... oh for _Hell’s_ sake, that means the dream-_me_ will have to’ve figured out how to get back here from the Ninth Ring, too... fuck..._

“Painted yourself into a bit of a corner, Crowley?” 

Crowley nearly leaped free of his mortal skin; all but discorporated, barely managing to keep the nightmare from being disrupted. He braced himself, feeling Her voice like nails driven into the soft bone of his temples; Her presence, like the scorching sun, on his wings and the back of his neck. He couldn’t turn; some deep-seated instinct for self-preservation told him he would die, for certain, if he turned to face Her. So he stayed frozen, his gaze fixed on Aziraphale and the tattoo on the side of his face searing like a brand. 

“Angels have the ability to manipulate dreams as well, you know.” 

“Well _that’s_ an obvious bit, just makes sense...” Crowley muttered, before realizing exactly who he was speaking to. He cleared his throat. “I-I mean—“ 

“Trust in him.” 

Crowley's feathers rose as the heat of Her presense intensified, his wings quivering beneath it. The broken radius healed; the dislocated joint snapped back into place, fearful of being caught in such an unbecoming state. Then, as suddenly as She had appeared, God vanished. Crowley felt a the immense pressure of Her presence lift from him, and he took several deep, rattling breaths. The room cooled to a tolerable temperature, and his silken feathers wilted back into a relaxed arrangement. 

_Trust... Aziraphale?_

The nightmare hadn’t progressed, not since Crowley’s attention had been so occupied. But suddenly, through the tenuous metal link, he felt it _shift_. 

_Angel!_

Aziraphale was on his hands and knees, _willing_ his bones to mend. Though still gripped by fear and pain, he was _imagining_ that he was fine; that he could withstand Hell’s tortures. 

“Shit...!” Crowley muttered, and stirred up the hellfire into an frenzy of sparks and ash. Aziraphale crumpled back down with a whimper, but his bones remained intact; his imagination didn’t buckle under Crowley’s illusion. _If he gets himself out of this... if he overpowers the nightmare—overpowers _Hell_, as far as he’s concerned—then he’ll think, not only that he actually has Fallen, but that there’s nothing in _any_ world that he should be afraid of!_

And yet, the words of the Almighty weren’t easily shrugged off. _“Trust in him.”_

Aziraphale struggled onto his knees, body rebuilding itself even though he left his wings in pieces around him. After a moment, Crowley decided to play Lucifer as surprised and uncertain, spitting cliched questions like “How can this be?!” Then he watched, amazed, as Aziraphale stood. 

“I... will _not Fall_!” 

Crowley’s heart took wing, in the moment, and he shouted, “Yes... _Yes_!” 

“I won’t allow it!” Aziraphale continued. Flesh and skin seethed back into place, sealing up wounds and restoring his human form. “We’ve been through far, far too much for it to end like this!” 

_We... _we_...!_ Crowley’s heart beat faster and faster still, and he hopped slightly where he sat. _Angel...!_

“I’m no fallen angel, and you’ve no power over me!” Aziraphale shouted, and braced himself. Crowley knew, instantly, what should come next—Aziraphale had reshaped the illusion, to a point, but it was time for the illusion to come to Aziraphale’s aid. 

As terrible as it had felt to steal away Aziraphale’s wings, comparable only to the agony of Crowley’s own Fall those millennia before, it felt equally euphoric to restore them. 

Within the dream, Aziraphale opened white wings with a rustle of brilliant, full feathers. Lucifer gave a faint hiss of pain, and Aziraphale flapped his wings. 

“Return him to me! Then we’ll go back to earth, and you and I, fiend, will have no further business with one another!” 

Crowley smirked. No such declaration from a wayward angel would ruffle the feathers of Lucifer, the Morning Star. But the dreamscape was, in the end, Crowley’s to do with what he wanted, so _his_ Lucifer cowered. 

“Such heavenly power... How can this be?!” Crowley smirked, thinking how profoundly insulted Lucifer would be by the portrayal. He resisted the most cliche lines—arrrgh, you’ve defeated me; I can’t hope to go up against one such as yourself; I’ve been vanquished!—and instead chose his phony devil’s words carefully. “You’ll surely _taint Hell_ with convictions so strong! Begone, _begone, Angel_!!” 

Crowley didn’t want his Lucifer to seem to fold completely; as much as he hated to, particularly when things had turned so brilliantly triumphant for his angel, he delivered an invisible blow to Aziraphale’s chest with all the force he could muster. It caught Aziraphale off-guard; he coughed blood, freshly-healed ribs snapping and body thrown violently backwards. But the purpose was accomplished: for a just a moment, split-second though it was, Aziraphale blacked out, and Crowley broke the trance with a snap of his fingers beside Aziraphale’s temple. 

Crowley threw himself backwards, playing as though he’d just dropped from the sky or some such nonsense as Aziraphale gasped awake. The wounds he’d given himself were, for all intents and purposes, quite real, and the strangled gasp of pain he gave wasn’t entirely fake. 

Then Aziraphale was crouched over him, and Crowley nearly cried out with relief. He reached up as if to touch Aziraphale’s perfect face, then remembered himself and looked around in apparent confusion. 

“What—What happened?” He’d never fancied himself the best actor, so he kept things simple. “I was... we, _we_ were in Hell...” 

“Oh, Crowley, Dear, Love...” Aziraphale leaned in; kissed him, first along the ridge of his cheekbone and then down to his jaw, nuzzling in close. “I’m so sorry, Dear One, for how foolish I’ve been! What I put you through! And just now, what nearly—! Oh, Love, forgive me.” 

Crowley choked on a feeling of _sick_; tasted stomach acid and bile in his throat. _What I... just did to you..._

“Don’t...” he breathed, and then reached up; pulled Aziraphale close, clawing at his back and binding them tightly together, too tightly to allow speech above a whisper. His nails scraped at the tender spot just between the bases of Aziraphale’s wings. “Don’t you apologize, Angel...” 

Aziraphale gave a small wriggle, seeming for a moment as if he would try to argue or struggle free, but then eased; let Crowley cling, and arranged his wings so they were draped over them both. 

“Such a fool I’ve been...” he breathed. “I nearly tossed away all we’ve struggled to obtain... just like that! Oh, and that _horrible_ Satan... Adam really was marvelously brave, wasn’t he? And how were _you_ ever friends with a rotten creature like that, my dear?” 

“Eeh... not really friends...” Crowley murmured, trying to quell his own trembling. “Ran in the same circle, that’s all...” 

“What a monstrous fellow...” Aziraphale continued, offhandedly now. “Let’s never go back down there, if we can help it.” 

Though with the distinct feeling that he should be happy, or at the very least _satisfied_, Crowley felt as though he might start weeping. “You shouldn’t... never should’ve had to... experience that...” 

Aziraphale sat up slightly, despite Crowley’s clinging. “I brought it on myself. You tried to prevent it, I see that now.” 

_Tried to prevent it..._ Crowley shut his eyes tightly, lest they give him away. _I _did that_ to you, Angel...!_

Aziraphale kissed his cheek; it was damp. “Did it bring back memories, Dear One? I’m sorry you had to revisit that on my account.” 

Crowley felt a tremor wrack him; choked out, “How can you... be so _calm_, Angel? After _that_?” 

“Because we’re safe, now,” Aziraphale whispered. “Because I didn’t Fall, and because they’ll _never_ get their deplorable hands on you again, not so long as I have any say in it.” 

And then Crowley wept, because he couldn’t help it. He wept because he was loved, and because he felt wretchedly unworthy of it. He wept because the guilt was far more corrosive than any sulfur. He wept because he _hurt_. 

And, though he’d intended to comfort Aziraphale after the nightmare, Aziraphale comforted him. And for that, Crowley loathed himself all the more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have read! This fic has been a pleasure to write, and this event an honor to be a part of. ;w; I've certainly got more Good Omens fic in the works, and so I hope to see you all again soon~

Crowley was typically the one more accustomed to sleep—he was in the habit of sleeping nearly once every 24-hour period, in a most human fashion. Aziraphale sometimes drifted off in a sunny spot or dozed beside Crowley in bed, but certainly didn’t go out of his way for the sake of sleep. 

That night, both angel and demon slept like the dead. They might not have even made to the bed if not for a minor miracle. But with the help of a demonic intervention, they curled close together in the large, antique bed hidden away upstairs rather than ending up on the bookshop floor. Aziraphale felt warm, again, and Crowley burrowed as close to him as their separate fleshes allowed. 

Come morning, Aziraphale was the first of them to wake. By the time Crowley pushed groggily upright, the bed was chilled; the scents of pancakes and coffee drifted up from the lower level of the shop. Crowley considered making his way downstairs, but felt rather boneless; lacked the motivation to crawl out of the bed, let alone make the trek down the steps. 

As it was, Aziraphale returned soon enough, a tray of breakfast in-hand. 

“Ah, you’re awake, Dear.” Aziraphale sat gingerly on the bed, tray placed next to him. Crowley slithered to the edge beside him. “Fancy a nibble?” 

“Naaah...” Crowley murmured, but he did rest his head on Aziraphale’s lap as the angel tucked in. It soothed him, to hear Aziraphale making the same delighted little noises over the food as he always had. Crowley shut his eyes and let himself drift on the edge of consciousness, just listening and reveling in the soft warmth of Aziraphale’s lap. 

“Let’s go into the countryside today for a bit, hmm?” Aziraphale asked, running a hand absently through Crowley’s hair. “Take a bit of a vacation. Perhaps not come back for a few days.” 

“Hmm... whatever you want, Angel...” 

“To take our minds off it all.” 

“Hmm...” 

Aziraphale’s hand stilled, and Crowley felt a sudden stab of unease. The violence of the nightmare, the trauma, would linger. Aziraphale was afraid again—with good reason, perhaps, but Crowley wished he didn’t need to be. 

“Let’s go off and have a picnic,” Crowley said, rolling slightly to look up at Aziraphale. “That’ll make the world seem a bit nicer, won’t it?” 

And Aziraphale smiled down at him, just the barest shadow about the expression. “Yes... yes, I do believe it would.”

... ... ... 

Crowley had a cup of coffee to get him warmed up and moving, and then the two of them worked together to pack up a meal. Neither acknowledged that they were fixing far more than a day's worth of food; neither spoke of the open-ended nature of their plans, although it seemed to be the decided consensus.

Aziraphale's movements were deliberate; bordering on cautious. It would scarcely be noticable to anyone else, but Crowley saw the changes and cringed. Aziraphale was the type to close the bookshop if he got a hangnail (although, admittedly, he would always find _some_ excuse to close the bookshop). He wasn't accustomed to physical pain, and he didn't suffer it well. Though the agonies of the nightmare were old hat to an ancient demon, Aziraphale never should have experienced such things. 

_And I... showed him... I _hurt him_..._

When wine and picnic pies and quiche and pasta salad and bagettes and scotch and brownies and cheesecake and instant coffee had all been packed, Crowley brought the Bentley around from it's covered parking some blocks away. Together they loaded their supplies, and Crowley didn't comment on the books and spare clothes and superfluous blankets that also made it into the backseat. 

Queen remained at a low hum as they drove, and they exchanged few words as they traversed the city that was, undoubtedly, _their city_. Crowley sang along to _Under Pressure_. When they reached the countryside, the conversation flowed a bit easier—small-talk about Adam and about Warlock, about a letter that had arrived from Anathema, and about the general state of the world. Aziraphale laughed when he recounted the last serious customer who'd managed to wander into his bookshop during business hours, and Crowley chuckled along with him as he described swiftly sending the gentleman on his way. 

The day passed. At some point, Aziraphale stretched into the backseat to fetch something light for lunch, and he and Crowley shared sandwiches and a bottle of merlot there in the front seat. Any other day, Crowley might've complained about the possibility of crumbs, but it seemed rather unimportant given the circumstances. 

"Up there?" Aziraphale asked eventually, pointing to a rather steep incline through a rocky outcropping. Without questioning it, Crowley steered up the gravel path. He slowed to a very reasonable speed, taking his time on the assent even as the sun sunk lower in the sky. When they'd reached the hill's summit, a private, grassy plateu, Crowley eased the Bentley to a stop and turned. 

"This spot suit you, Angel?" 

"Mm. It's perfect." 

They got out; unpacked the food and blankets as the shadows lengthened. The stain of crimson sunset spread across the sky as they ate, shoulders pressed close together. Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley's shoulder, and Crowley thought it was the only sensation that mattered in the whole world. 

"Thank you, dear one." 

"Hhn?" 

"For coming down after me. For stopping me from Falling." 

Crowley felt a stab, a sharp physical pain, deep in his chest. "I didn't do that. You did that for yourself, Angel." 

"Mm-mm..." Aziraphale gave a slight shake of his head. "Not without you. Because of you." 

Crowley's throat closed up, and he thought that the guilt might rise up like quicksand to consume him. "I didn't... do anything..." 

"I love you, Crowley." 

Crowley felt caustic liquid, _sulfur_, climb up his throat to choke him; thought he might die. He closed his eyes. 

Aziraphale stood, brushing himself off. He let his wings unfirl with a light flexing of his shoulders; feathers spilled down his back, and then ruffled out into their glorious expanse. Crowley's heart rose at the sight, and he nearly reached out as though to touch them. They were far out of reach, anyway. 

"Do you mind?" Aziraphale asked, making a vague motion towards the cliff's edge. The first stars were visible against the pale navy of the night sky, although the sun's dying rays still clung, desperate, to the western horizon. 

"Not at all..." Crowley breathed, and Aziraphale smiled. 

"Thank you," he said again, and then took a short trotting start; dove from the solid ground and rose up with a powerful flap of snowy wings. Several pale feathers came loose, and Crowley caught one as it drifted back to him. 

“Angel...” he breathed, and then looked up to watch as Aziraphale twisted and dove about, his wings standing out brilliantly against the darkening sky. Crowley tipped his head back towards Alpha Centauri—not visible, that night, but he knew exactly where it was. “We could’ve gone up there... just you and me...” 

He looked again at Aziraphale, still reveling in the joys of flight—a thing Crowley could scarcely recall, now. The angel seemed to be dancing in the light of the rising moon, something much more profound than a gavotte and yet no less fun for its gravity. Slowly, Crowley got to his feet. He let his own wings manifest with a soft rustle, and held more tightly onto the white feather in his hand. 

Visions flashed, blindingly fast and yet indelible, across Crowley’s vision. He saw Aziraphale gasping in agony, drowning in sulfur. He saw Aziraphale stripped of those glorious wings, his body broken and mangled. He saw Hell, and he knew that he’d shown it to his angel. 

It started as a walk, toes dragging through the lush early-summer grass, and then he was running; Crowley felt the air tearing at his clipped wings as he ran, eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s flight. His feet left the ground—not a jump, exactly, but simply a running out of earth beneath him. Gravity, then, seized him like the weight of so many damned souls, and pulled him into free-fall. 

_To Fall... in your place... I should suffer at least this..._

“Crowley!” 

Crowley’s eyes snapped open at the call of his name, and his wings opened automatically—they caught an updraft that jerked them painfully in their sockets, and Crowley cried out. But then they flapped, a forgotten reflex, and his fall _slowed_. His wings shifted; he banked, his muscles remembering how to fly even if he didn’t, and then he was _climbing_. 

“For _Heaven's_ sake, Crowley!” came Aziraphale’s distressed shout, and then the angel was in front of him, hands outstretched. Crowley, hovering, feeling his wings beat steadily to keep him aloft, reached out and took them. Aziraphale interlocked their fingers. “What the _bloody hell_ were you thinking, jumping like that?! I thought you said—" And suddenly Aziraphale’s expression cleared; he laughed, joyfully. “I see! That bit about not being able to fly anymore, that was your way of trying to scare me! To talk me out of that _wretched_ Falling idea! You fiendishly clever thing, you! You did have me fooled! And a good bit frightened, I’ll add. Would’ve saved us both some trouble if I’d listened to you then, wouldn’t it?” 

Bewildered, Crowley could only try for weak a smile—he wasn’t quite sure if it worked, but Aziraphale’s answering smile was _radient_, so he must have managed something. Aziraphale released one of his hands, then, and pulled him upwards; Crowley was surprised when, again, his wings responded as if _they knew_, as if they hadn’t been nothing more than deadweight, gaudy decorations since his Fall. They felt light and powerful, resoundingly warm, and with one push he surpassed Aziraphale as they climbed higher into the night sky. Their hands parted as they soared upwards, side-by-side, space between them existing only so far as to avoid collusion. They spiraled around one another, higher and higher still, the moonrise bathing them in silver as the hilltop and the Bentley and the remains of their picnic faded to nothing beneath them. 

Crowley closed his eyes against cool tears, listening to the rush of wind and the sound of Aziraphale’s flight beside him. Confusion faded into awe, and he whispered a prayer of gratitude. It didn’t burn on his tongue. 

Mist overtook them, crisp and chilled, and Crowley opened his eyes in the midst of a light cloud. One more wingbeat took them clear of it, though, and Aziraphale emerged beside him with a brisk shake of his head. They slowed, hovering with a soft beating of wings against the silent night sky. 

“We could carry straight on to Alpha Centauri, Dear. If you wanted.” 

Crowley had drowned in the blessed, airless starlight before; he knew they _could_. They’d race through whatever troposphere they had left, and they’d likely get through the stratosphere before their corporeal forms started to give out. Breathing would become hard, then impossible, but they would press on—their physical bodies would burn off painlessly in the mesosphere, and there would be no turning back. Five hundred to a thousand kilometers up and they would clear the thermosphere, then pass through the exosphere and into open space beyond. 

Crowley recalled floating, formless and enraptured, as he took part in crafting the constellations. He’d reveled in the brilliant colors of nebulae; basked in the energy of radiant stars. He’d been a part of God’s love, then—just one angel among many, indistinguishable as an individual, and content to exist as such. But he’d taken distinct pride in his work on those stars, and perhaps that had been the very beginning of _him_. 

Crowley reached out; took Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale interlocked their fingers, and the warmth of the angel’s soft grip chased off the chill of the altitude. The stars might have been the begining, but the Earth held all that was precious to him, now. 

“Another time, maybe, Angel. Earth is our place. Right? We got to keep it—best to enjoy it.” 

Aziraphale nodded. "Of course. Our own side." He pulled them closer together and kissed Crowley, tenderly. And, though their wings were in real danger of tangling with one another, there was no risk of a fall.

✩_end_✩


End file.
